Outside
by Joeli
Summary: This is the missing part of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, the escape of Sirius Black and how he managed to survive afterwards.


Author's note: Based on Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

**Disclaimer and Warning: **The characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I don't make a single Knut with them.  
The story contents some violent thoughts and memories of a love-affair between two men. If you don't like this, go and read someone else's story.

**Outside**

I've done it.

My heart seems to burst. I'm free. No more walls, no more bars. No more Dementors. They'll soon be coming to search for me. I have to get away from here.

It must have been the first time. Nobody's done that before. Well, some might have tried, but nobody has survived to tell the tale. Okay, I'm not so sure that I will. I rather think not.

Shit, it's cold. The chill is going through my skin and directly into my bones. It hurts. Every inch of my skin and every single bone underneath is aching from the coldness. I have to get out of the water. Swim to the shore? I never make it. It's pitch dark, I can't see the shore, I don't even know in which direction the next shore might be.

Think! You didn't escape to drown miserably in the North Sea or freeze to death. What was it, I had in mind? There had been a plan in my head ... but the chill has paralysed my thoughts as well as my limbs. My legs are paddling automatically underneath my body, but they are becoming slow and arduous. Legs. Four. That's it. I wanted to transform, because I can't apparate as a dog. As soon as I'm a man, I'll apparate on dry land. Somewhere far away from here. I've got to do it now. Or I'm finished.

How ... I need an emotion, something to make me feel human again. My head is empty, I can't think. I've emptied it entirely, so they couldn't sense me. I've buried all my feelings deep down inside. Deep enough to fool them.

My heart has almost stopped beating.

I have a heart. It once was full of love. Funny word. I can't remember the feeling, only the word. But there was something else. Something they didn't like, something they didn't suck. What was it?

Water irrupts into my mouth. My legs can hardly move any more. If I don't get it right now, I'll drown. Everything has been in vain. In vain. Hiding. Secretkeeper. Safety. Child. Harry. Peter! I have to kill him. That's what's left for me to do. Go and kill him to rescue the child. Have to kill the rat, before it can harm Harry.

It's even colder than before. I think I die. My body is as cold as a stone on the sea bottom. They've taken everything away from me. I have not a single bit of fat under my skin to protect me from the cold. I must apparate now, away from here. Dry land. Sunshine. I need warmth, more than anything else. Nothing matters any more. South. Far away. Heat. Holidays. The beach in France. It was nice and warm there. Somebody was there with me, who cared for me. It felt warm inside and outside. I can't remember the feeling. It was a good one, so they sucked it. That's why I can't.

Dry ground beneath me. I've managed at last. As likely as not I'm going to die now. I've been in the water far too long. My body's lost all the warmth Azkaban had left in me. It wasn't much. My senses fade away. I can see myself lying on the beach. I'm shining in the darkness. They'll find a dead naked man on the shore tomorrow. Or what's left of him, after twelve years in Azkaban. Not much of a man. A carcass with a cock and hair. I'm looking dreadful. The caricature of a man. No, I can't leave my body behind like that. I have to return once more and transform again. I'll be a dead cur, but at least I'll have my coat and won't look like a naked scrag.

I hear a strange sound. What is it? It's annoying me. I can't sleep.

It's my teeth chattering. I have to become a dog, for they shan't find me that way. Then I can rest and find peace at last. Dog. Fur. Paws. Muzzle. Yes, that's how it was.

I don't sense the transformation any more. But it must have happened. My spirit is rising and I can't see myself shining any more. A black spot on the dark beach, that's what once was me. I'm rising higher, the moon is right above me.

What was it with the moon? I had a reason to be a dog. It had something to do with the moon. With the moon and someone I cared for. Is he still there? I don't know. He never came to see me. In all these years he didn't come once. He believed I really did all that. Betrayed and killed my best friends. He believed it, like everyone else. That I'd be able to do such. Me, who would have done anything for him. For him and James and Lily. And for Peter as well.

Why do I lie there? I had a reason for running. I had a plan. It was important. The sky is so near, I could just go a little further and leave now. I'm easy, no weight upon me any more. The next breeze will take me away. But there was something left to do for me. I can't go. Something that's holding me back on earth. Innocence. I'm not responsible for their deaths. Or at least not entirely. And I've got something to do before I go. They still live in him. As long as Harry's alive, they are not dead. I have to protect Harry against the rat. I have to find him. Before the rat can strike once more.

I return. Into this cold and starved body. It feels shitty. Oh my God, everything pains. I have to force myself to breathe. Breathe and survive. Breathe and live. And then find the rat. Tomorrow I go and search for the rat. Now I'm too tired. I'm so terribly tired.

I hear voices. Children's voices. They are calling. They approach. And they depart again. But they return. Together with another voice. I hear the sand gritting underneath my ear, as their steps draw nearer. I can't move, I'm too tired. Just let me lie here.

"Est-il mort?", a girl's voice asks.

"Oui, je crois. Regardez, ce chien était malade", a man's voice answers. I'm not dead yet. And I haven't been ill either. To be on the safe side, I open one eye, in order that they don't bury me right here and now.

Glistening sunlight burns in my eye. I can't keep it open. But it warms my body, or it would, if they'd not stand around and gaze at me. Just go away, I say. It sounds like a rusty tap. The people around me draw back one step, astonished. "Il n'est pas mort. Il vit." Good you have noticed. Now leave me alone and go out of my sun. A twittering starts around me. They decide that they can't leave me lying here. As if there was one reasonable argument for not doing so. They go and bring a big towel. They wrap me into it and lift me up.

There's a voice of a woman, complaining to her husband about bringing that mangy brute home with him. I look at her. She scowls at me. I flutter my eyelashes. This works almost every time.

"Ah, quel malheur", she says, half grudgingly, half relently. I blink again. Suddenly she's different. Lay him down there, she says. The man puts me on the ground. She goes and gets me fresh water in a bowl and places it in front of me. It smells good. I'm thirsty. I try to raise my head, but I can't. I'm too weak. Maybe they should put me down, I think. But then I remember. I mustn't die yet. I try again. I don't make it. But they can see that I want to. Compassionately they start to scoop some water with their hands and let it trickle into my mouth. I can gulp. Sweet fresh water at last. It's so wonderful. I want more. They give me a little more, but then they stop. I need more. Please. It's such a relief. The man strokes my head and speaks kind words of encouragement.

I would, if I only could. You have to help me, dear man. I can't make it on my own. He shuffles the bowl even nearer to my nose. Then he's got a flash of genius. He takes my head into his hands and lifts it up, so that I only have to dip my tongue into the water. I can do that. I lick. Gosh, this is good. I've swallowed so much brine, it's a miracle I'm still alive.

After a while, the man thinks I've had enough. I'd drink more, but he doesn't let me. He thinks too much would harm me. Maybe he's right. I could go on with drinking for ever. But he lays my head down and strokes me gently. My fur is matted and shaggy, stuck together with salt. But he cuddles me nonetheless and speaks gently to me. Even though he knows nothing about me. He doesn't know me. Better that way. If he knew who I was, he'd call the police. They'd turn me in to the authorities.

I push this thought aside. It's just too pleasant to hear benevolent voices and feel affectionate touches on my skin. I haven't had that for twelve years. I've missed it every single day.

They've kept us alive in Azkaban. Oh yes, they didn't want us to die. We were their nourishment. Day after day. Of course, some died all the same, out of black despair, or because they got ill. Because they just didn't want to live under these conditions and had given in into hopelessness. But most of us survived. Once a day they dealt out food. These were the moments of their feast. The anticipation to something that kept you warm just for a few moments was a good feeling, something they nourish on. There wasn't much else to haul out of us after a while.

If you had been in Azkaban for a few months, there were no more good feelings or sweet memories they could take away from you. The pleasurable anticipation on food was all that's been left for them. That's why they kept us tightly controlled. To sustain the boon of eating and drinking in spite of the horror their presence effuses.

Sometimes, they gave you a personal item into your prison cell. A souvenir, a photo, a piece of jewellery, anything to evoke a happy memory. Just to suck it out again.

These were the most gruesome moments. When they evoked memories to steal them again and leave your heart even colder than before. Sometimes you prayed for death. If you were lucky enough, his little bro Sleep came to pluck you from their jaws.

They didn't do it often. They knew you could expire. They had gone too far on some occasions and learned their lessons. But sometimes they just got too hungry and indulged themselves regardless.

I feel the soft touch of his fingers on my neck and ears. They gently massage my skin. I close my eyes and think of someone, who used to do this to me. "Paddy" he'd called me lovingly, when we'd awaken in the morning. He'd rub his face into my fur, kissed me on my nose. He'd said that he loved me. But he never came to see me. He couldn't bring himself to visit me. I could have explained what had happened. He could have tried to help me get out of there. He would have believed me, if I had had the chance to speak to him. But he didn't come. He's forsaken me. He's forgotten me.

He was always afraid that someone would know about us. I loved him so much. Every hour, every minute I had longed for to see him. To hear his precious voice. Sometimes I heard it in my dreams, his "Paddy", saw his golden eyes before me, felt his sweet breath stroke my nose. But it's always been illusion, it never happened.

I had burrowed him deep down inside. A place so deep they couldn't find. It's been our secret. Something we were hiding straight from the beginning. That's why I was able to keep my memories of him. Otherwise they would have taken them first of all. Cause they were my best, my happiest. And my worst as well. Maybe I should have given them away. Then I would have been rid of him. He wouldn't have been there to torture me with my yearning, my need and my frustration. But I didn't give them away. They were hidden too well in the bottom of my heart. They couldn't get them, so he's still there.

The children are back again. They ask how the dead dog is. Is he in heaven?

No, says the man, he's not in heaven, he's still here. He's alive.

They want to see me, after all it was them who found me.

All right, but don't go too near, says the man. Maybe he's ill and it's something infectious.

Cautiously they draw nearer, as quietly as they can with their tapsy little feet and excitedly whispering. I want to beckon them. How stupid. I have no hands. But my paw twitches slightly, and they do understand when I wink. I hoist the corner of my mouth and they say "Voilá, il sourit!"

Yes, children do understand.

Did he eat, they want to know. No, says the man. But he drank something.

What did you give him, they demand.

Water, replies the man. Dogs drink water, of course.

But cats get milk, they protest. That's not fair, he shall have milk as well. Give him milk.

The man looks at his wife, and she sighs and fetches the milk-bottle. He pours a little milk into the bowl and holds my head, so I can drink. I begin to lick up the milk. The children are hooked. He's going to be fine, they cry.

They are full of sanguinity and want to keep me. The parents look at each other slightly frowning. He's rather big, they say. He's going to need a lot of food. But the children would never listen to such reasons.

We'll eat less then, they say. We want to keep him. He shall be our doggy.

The parents exchange a secret glance. If they only had left him where he was, they think. Now they have it. I can see in their eyes, what they are thinking. It doesn't matter at the moment. I don't give a damn, as long as they don't tie a stone around my neck and throw me back into the sea. If they take me, I'd like to stay a little while. I could do with a little help, to be honest, I need it. But I understand if they don't want me. Would I give the starved cur a chance, if I found it on the beach? I gave the werewolf a chance. Yes, I think I would.

They do give me a chance. They lay me down on a nice warm spot in the penumbra. The man runs his hands up and down my body. He looks at me carefully and searches for injuries.

He isn't hurt, he says. And I don't think he's ill. Just starved and exhausted. He's weighing utmost half of what a dog of that size should, he says.

Yes, they've kept us short in Azkaban. For to maintain the joy of eating and drinking. And because it's easier to suck even the last good feeling out of a debilitated person. Most of them have started to scream when the guards drew closer. Because they left you a little colder every time. Because sometimes your heart refused to beat as long as they were near.

I bore the misery without screaming. And I despised them all. This hogs lot was in for it. They were responsible. They got what they'd asked for. They had covered the country with terror, senselessly murdered, tortured and blackmailed the people, to serve a lunatic. What could the Dark Lord, as they named him, have done without his willingly obedient servants? And now they sit in Azkaban and wail about their fate. At the head my cousin and her slimy husband. My own flesh and blood. I feel so ashamed to have once called them my family. For all I care, they can stay where they are until hell freezes over.

The man goes away. He kisses his wife and they talk a bit in low voices. I can't understand what they say. I think it's about me. Or maybe not. I don't care. The woman comes to me after a little while. She gets on her knees. Now she begins to stroke me and speaks soft words of comfort. Poor creature, she says. Who's done that to you? Where do you come from?

That would be a very long tale, and honestly, you wouldn't really want to know, I think. I just look into her eyes and try another smile. She smiles back at me and says: You really do smile. Do you think you could eat a bit?

That's a good question. The milk did me good. The warm sunshine and the affection did me good. I want to try. I lift my head. I can do it now. I can hold it up on my own. At least for a while. I put all my strength together and roll until I rest on my belly. I'm trembling a little from the strain, but the woman is impressed. A flash in her eyes tells me that she's content with me. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with another bowl. Some pieces of white bread are in there, soaked in warm milk.

She knows what she's doing. It's the diet she would give to a person who ingests something for the first time after a long and serious illness. My head is heavy, but I can hold it. I start to eat. It is wearisome, but good. No screams. Food without the screaming of those sissies, who only got what they deserved.

It tastes so sweet. I don't have to chew much, it's so soft. That's very good, I can take it in my mouth and gulp it right away. My first meal in freedom. I could continue eating for ever. The bowl is empty in an instant. I look at the woman enquiringly. May I have some more, please? The corners of her mouth are twitching. Should she ...? Too much wouldn't be good for you, she says. I blink at her, begging. Her glance softens. Damn, she says. I knew it from the start. You're going to ruin us and I already can't resist you.

She goes back to the kitchen and gets me some more. I despatch the second help in lightning-speed again. But then I have to take a rest. I lick my nose and look at her thankfully. Then I put my head down on my front paws and close my eyes. I think, it took me ten seconds to fall asleep. I awake from time to time, when I hear voices or steps. I take a short glance to see who it is, waggle my tail a bit to show I'm all right, and keep on sleeping. My new family is enamoured. The children want to play with me. But the woman says no. Not yet. He's still too weak. Let him sleep. Anyhow he has eaten, which means, he'll soon be better. When he's recovered a bit, you can play with him.

When will that be? Tonight?

No, not so soon. In a few days, perhaps, says the woman. The children are disappointed. They don't want to wait that long. One prowls nearer as their mother looks the other way. Warily it touches my paw. I smile and open my eyes. The child giggles happily. The woman is not amused. But then she thinks it over. The dog is weak, but doesn't seem to be ill. At least that's what her husband said. So she takes the risk to let them draw nearer. Okay, but you go and wash your hands afterwards, she advises the kids. But be very careful, don't poke in the eyes, it'd hurt him. And not into the muzzle, there are sharp teeth in there. He might bite you, if you do.

The children are careful. They touch my face, investigate my nose, my ears and my paws. They stroke my head and my back, my sides. Poor little doggy, they twitter. I'm bigger then they are. But they are right. I'm a poor little doggy and deserve their sympathy. I let them go on. Even on ticklish spots. It feels good to be tickled. It's an interesting new experience. I always hated to be tickled, or that's what I thought.

I get thirsty again. The salt has to be washed out of my body. Too much of it in my blood. I need water. I raise my head and look at my water-bowl. I crane my neck. The children understand and push it into my reach. I drink. And drink. Until the bowl is empty. They go and get me some more. What a pleasure. Enough to drink, finally. Without screams. Without getting colder every time.

I feel better now. I'm recovering fast. I crawl out of the shade into the blazing sun. I need the warmth. I bask until my skin's burning from the heat. Then I turn around and let the other side stock up some sunshine. It's such a pleasure. The mother has advised the children to look after me and provide me with fresh water. They do it with enthusiasm. I feel how my body's regaining warmth. But it's not only the sun. It's the children. I hear their sweet little voices, they care for me so solicitously. Their mother comes every now and then to look if everything's all right with me. Something's melting inside. Like a piece of glacial ice my heart begins to thaw very slowly.

The man returns in the evening. He's brought dog food with him. He was convinced that I'd make it, beat the odds. He sees that I can rise up for eating and smiles happily. He comes to me, kneels next to me and starts to cuddle me. He comments on my progress. I lick his hands thankfully. A tear comes to his eye and he turns away his face embarrassed. As if he had to be ashamed about his feelings. Men are stupid sometimes.

I've been that silly as well. Once upon a time, when I still had tears to cry, I hid them in shame. Now I wish I had some left to show. But I'm afraid I have none. They are all cried out. The fundament of Azkaban is soaked with them.

Something strange is happening here. They have taken me in, and I – I want to stay. They are so kind to me. The kids coddle and regale me. They save the best bites on their plates and give them to me secretly. Of course their parents know. But they turn a blind eye. They even give me the half of their deserts. They carefully watch out not to take too much of it for themselves. They want enough to be left for me. I feel slightly ashamed about taking away their desert. But I'd hurt their feelings refusing it. Their greatest pleasure seems to be seeing me eating.

I feel stronger every day. They take me out for a walk. At first only a few steps. But we are going longer every day. The moon is waning. The days are closing in. I'm restless. I need to go. Every day I linger may jeopardise my whole plan. I have to find the rat, before he can harm again.

I don't want to leave this family. I've become fond of them. I like them. And I'm so glad and thankful for everything they've done for me. They've bought a collar and a leash, they've bathed and curried me. I'm looking better now. I'm not that wretched any more. I'm still weak and scrawny, but I think I've put on weight a bit. They even named me. _Sourit_ they call me, cause I'm the dog that smiles. I'd love to stay with them and return some of the kindness and benefit they gave to me. I know they'll be very sad and disappointed, when I leave them. I know it for sure. They love me, I can see it in their eyes. The kids will shed bitter tears, when I'm gone. I'll stay a little while. Maybe I can make it tomorrow.

This is the third day I'm saying that. This is not my style. When I've made up my mind, I do the things I've planned – immediately.

I've never been a procrastinator. I'm a doer. One who squeezes between Dementor's legs to gain freedom. One who's getting in trouble every now and then because he never thinks twice. I've nearly paid with my life for my last spontaneous decision. And the one before that brought me into Azkaban. Maybe I'm healed from spontaneity.

I can't hang around here any longer. I have to go and see Harry. I have to find Peter and eat him. This decision wasn't spontaneous. I've had enough time to figure out what I'm going to do with him when I've found him.

I'll eat him.

I'm going to munch him with pleasure. I'll crunch every single bone in his body. I'll be delighted to hear the sound of his cracking skull between my molars and to savour the taste of his brain on my tongue. I know this sounds perverted. These are the fancies of a starved dog. But they are manifested in my plans. He'd been my friend. Before he'd betrayed us all and handed us over to our enemies.

I'll digest any nutriment his body has to give. That's how he'll pay the penalty for what he's done to me. For the hunger and the thirst and the cold of Azkaban. It's not enough to measure up to what he's done, I know. But what else can I do? There's no way he can ever pay for what he's done to James and Lily.

It's dark now. New moon. A night as black as my name. As black as my skin. And as black as my thoughts when I think of Peter. It's time to go. I'll miss them. Should I leave without a word of good bye? I'd like to write them a letter and explain everything. But it would take hours to write it and only confuse them. They are muggles, they can't understand all this. Maybe I'll come back one day, when I'm through with Peter. I will explain everything. It grieves me to leave them behind without a word. But it's useless to ponder on this subject. I have to go now. Au revoir, mes amis.

Something feels wrong inside of me. I don't want this. Undecided, I come to a halt, I turn to look back. I'd gladly run back home. Yes, this little house and their inhabitants became home to me during the last two weeks - my family. My heart is aching suddenly. I can feel it again. It aches. All at once it starts beating fast and loudly. Something loosens inside of me. I yowl, because it hurts so much. Adieu, I bark curtly, more to convince myself that it's really time to go. If they hear me, they'll come and search for me, so I must hurry now. Or I'll never get away from here. I turn around and start to run.


End file.
